


Horizon Light

by Glare



Category: Pacific Rim, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternative Universe - Pacific Rim, Canon-Typical Violence, Disability, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jaeger Pilots Obi-Wan & Anakin, M/M, Poor Coping Strategies, Slow Burn, Strong Language, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-10-10 02:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: As the Kaiju War rages on, the fall of two Jaegers leaves their surviving pilots alone and devastated. Obi-Wan Kenobi is suicidal, Anakin Skywalker is homicidal, and the Powers that Be can do nothing but hope the pair will balance each other out before they lose two of their best pilots to their vices.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely fireflyfish's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits 3/28: got off my lazy ass and finally corrected all the lingo things I knew I fucked up.

The bitter tang of a cigarette coats Obi-Wan's tongue as he sits on the grated walkway that overlooks the Jaeger bay. It buzzes with activity, but then it always does these days with the frequency of Kaiju attacks steadily increasing. Everyone is on edge, but they’re all trying to pretend otherwise. Pilot partners still keep to their scheduled team games, though more and more often there is someone missing from the roster; technicians still come and go, fiddling with wires and electronics here and there; mechanics still tinker with their metal charges, making sure each joint is greased and each plate secured.  


At the far end of the hanger, the Jaeger known as Horizon Light sits lifelessly in her repair stall. Mechanics scurry over and around and through her, their equipment sparking and whirring as they work tirelessly to repair the Jaeger's damage. Obi-Wan doesn't know why they bother; he's not getting back in that damned machine. That doesn’t stop him from visiting her, though, watching the gaping holes in her armor get patched back together by mechanics like cells repair the human body. Sometimes he stays up here for hours, away from the bustle of the crowd and pitying looks of his fellow pilots, losing himself in the memory of better days. His therapist says it isn’t healthy; he’s told her that he doesn’t particularly care.  


The wounds on his wrists throb dully. He probably should have had the bandages changed before he pulled this latest disappearing act.

From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan catches the flash of polished boots approaching. He doesn't bother to check who they belong to, nor does he acknowledge their presence when they stop at his side. There is only one person who ever bothers to track him down when he gets in a mood—only one person who has enough at stake in his recovery to make sure he hasn’t tried to kill himself again in one of the base’s quiet, unattended corners. Instead, he just keeps looking out over the hanger. That had been his life once, down among the pilots. He and Qui-Gon, relaxing against Horizon's massive feet and discussing the latest gossip going around; playing basketball with the other teams, wiping the floor with their opponents as they ride the high of a ghost drift; tangled in the sheets in Qui-Gon's quarters, catching their breath in the aftermath of lovemaking. That's all gone now, replaced instead by the gaping black hole that lurks where Qui-Gon's mind should be.

These days Obi-Wan doesn't sleep, barely eats, as his mind mourns the loss of connection. The brass have him on suicide watch and mandatory sessions with a psychologist when they aren’t trying to stuff him back in the cockpit with whatever young thing will accept the risk.

"Vokara tells me you missed your last session, Kenobi," Marshal Windu says, nudging him with the toe of his polished boot, "And the mess staff say they haven’t seen you in days. You’re not going to be much help when we get you back in the harness if you keep this up."

"Maybe I don't want to go back," Obi-Wan retorts, taking another long drag of his cig. It's a filthy habit, but it's the only thing that'll settle his mind after Qui's death.

"You know that's not an option, Obi-Wan. We need every pilot we can get; if you can drift with a copilot, they're putting you back in the conn-pod."

"Well, it's a good thing I haven't been compatible with anyone they've trotted out, then," he sneers.

They've attempted to tie him to someone else in the weeks since Qui's death—since Maul rammed the Horizon with its crown of horns, ripping straight through the metal of the comm-pod. Obi-Wan had gotten lucky, only grazed by one of the knife-like protrusions; Qui had not shared his fortune, taking one of the beast’s horns directly through his gut. When he drifts, he remembers. He relives those moments and feels their pain over and over and over again. Maul cleaved in two by the Horizon's sword, its electric blue, acidic blood oozing sluggishly down her blade; Qui-Gon bleeding out in the other harness, gasping raggedly for breath as vibrant red stains the tan paint of his pilot and circuitry suits; Obi-Wan's mind, strained beyond its capacity, tearing itself apart in the aftermath of single combat. The potential partners they drag out to drift with him, cadets fresh out of the academy, can never handle the stress. If he doesn’t turn them into a broken mess on the mats, the violence of his mind rejecting theirs in the drift leaves them seizing. Obi-Wan suspects that if he wasn't such a good pilot, they brass would have already tossed him out on his ass.

"They think they've found you someone. Someone who can handle what's going on up in that head of yours."

Obi-Wan snorts, thinking of the long list of copilots that have come and gone. "That's what they always say. What makes this one so special?"

Windu draws a personnel file from under his arm, brandishing it in Obi-Wan's face until he accepts. ‘Skywalker, Anakin’ the tab on the file reads. He flips it open, glancing over it if only to appease Mace.

Skywalker has an impressive record for his age—a young 23—scoring among the highest in his class at the academy despite several disciplinary citations for reckless and rebellious behavior. His record since stepping in a jaeger is even more impressive, almost flawless. Five drops, four kills. "It seems he's already got a copilot," Obi-Wan comments, flipping through the paperwork to read a summary of their drift compatibility. "Tano? Why are you splitting them up? They're obviously a successful pair."

"Tano's in the infirmary, in a coma." Windu says, the grief of another young pilot lost briefly cracking his iron resolve. "They don’t know whether she’ll wake, or if she’ll ever be able to pilot again if she does. I hadn't gotten the chance to update that file before the higher ups announced that they wanted to pair you two up."

It is perhaps the most ridiculous thing Obi-Wan has ever heard. He and Skywalker, both fresh out of the trauma of a lost copilot? Working together? "They really think putting two damaged pilots in the same comm-pod is going to end in anything less than disaster?"

Windu chuckles bitterly. "Probably not, but they're not ready to just let go of two of their best and brightest. They're hoping Skywalker's brand of crazy will balance out yours."

"Is that how it works now?"

"You tried to kill yourself when Jinn died; Skywalker stabbed a paramedic with a piece of scrap metal when they arrived to drag him and Tano out of their dead Jaeger."

"Well at least if this doesn't work out, we may well end up killing each other in the drift rejection and spare you all the trouble of paying our pensions."

"I'm looking forward to it," Windu huffs, accepting the file back. "Will you at least meet him?"

"Doesn't seem like I have much of a choice."

"You're right. I'll see you in the training halls first thing in the morning for your basic compatibility tests."

"And I expect you to make up your session with Vokara," Windu calls over his shoulder as he walks away, but the words fall on deaf ears. Kenobi has already returned his focus to the hanger, lost in the whirlwind of memory.  



	2. Chapter 2

If the jaeger bay is the heart of every shatterdome, then LOCCENT is the brain. Even in the off hours, it remains hard at work: monitoring the breach, coordinating jaeger launches, keeping in contact with those still out in the field. Obi-Wan hasn't visited much since Qui's death, reminded too starkly of their final briefing before the disaster with Maul, but he finds himself there in the early hours before his compatibility test.

He’s drawn up a chair at Ki-Adi-Mundi's station, listening to the technician as he makes his morning contact with the rangers out on patrol. Mundi's voice is soothing, familiar; easier to listen to and obey than some of the other techs. He'd been a ranger himself once, years ago, before the instability of the mark ones took their toll and he was banned from the harness for the sake of his health. He's worn beyond his years, hair prematurely white, but still dedicated to the cause. You can take a soldier out of the fight, but you can't take the fight out of a soldier. He'd gone back to the academy when Obi-Wan was there and worked his way up to the position of J-Tech Chief. Now he's one of most respected officers on base.

"Eat, Kenobi," he says in the brief moments where he switches between com frequencies. "You're going to need your strength today."

Obi-Wan does, because he's right. The tray of powdered, rehydrated eggs and slightly stale toast is hardly the most appealing thing he's ever eaten, but the war has taken its toll on even the taste buds of its soldiers. Governments have been reduced to rationing food, trading labor for meals along their coastlines as more and more funding is subverted to the Wall of Life program. Bread, however old, is a gift; very few ports are left open for trade in the wake of the Kaiju attacks.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, a mix of nerves and the nausea that comes with indulging in a heavy meal after a few days without. If he didn't need energy for the fight, for putting Skywalker on his ass, Obi-wan would've skipped this meal as well. Time will tell whether or not he'll keep it down, but for now he forces himself to focus on the upcoming sparring session instead of the grainy texture of his eggs.

"What can you tell me about him? Skywalker, I mean?"

Anxiety must be obvious in the tone of his voice, because Mundi glances away from where he's monitoring the Ironclad Glory's patrol to study him. For all the other copilots the brass has put up, Obi-Wan has never bothered to look into them beyond a brief scan of the file Windu presents him with. He knew their type: inexperienced, overly eager to get out in the world and make a name for themselves. They'd drifted once or twice in a test harness with their classmates, but didn't understand the intensity of a true drift—didn’t understand the bond it forged between pilots. Obi-Wan suspects that's why he rejected them so intensely.

Skywalker, however, is a wild card. An unknown variable. He's been in the harness and knows what it is to be connected to another person in the most intimate way possible. He knows combat—true combat—not the glorified, idealized crap they air on the news every time a Kaiju goes down. Real combat is messy and ugly; blood, sweat, and the desperate cling to survival. It’s knowing that every decision is life and death, and knowing that there’s consequences for more than just you if you choose wrong. Obi-Wan has no idea what to expect from the other pilot.  


“I’ve only worked with him once, so there’s not a whole lot I can tell you I’m afraid. He’s reckless, rebellious, but you would know that already if you’ve seen read his file. When he gets out there, he gets caught up in his own head and won’t listen to instruction.” Mundi pauses then, turning his gaze back to the terminal and fiddling with some switches. “Honestly, I think it was only a matter of time before he hurt someone. I’m just sorry it was Tano; she was a great pilot.”  


If Obi-Wan thought he was going to be sick before, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now. His gut twists violently, anxiety only worsened by Mundi’s words. Honestly, what is the brass thinking? Are they trying to kill them? There’s no way Obi-Wan is going to be compatible with someone like Skywalker. Even if they get past the initial spar, even if their combat style is compatible (Obi-Wan’s preference for melee weaponry has turned off many potential, range-specialized rangers), they’ll never be able to align themselves in the drift.  


When it came to his and Qui-Gon’s dynamic in the drift, Obi-Wan had always been the cautious one. Qui had a habit of not looking before he leapt, and Obi-Wan’s patience had balanced him out in a way that made them a formidable team. While Anakin seems to have a similar temperament, preferring to charge right in rather than pausing to consider his option, Mundi has explicitly stated that he isn’t going to be willing to listen to reason. Obi-Wan will never allow someone to drag him heedlessly into a dangerous situation. They won’t ‘balance each other out’ as the brass seem to think will happen; they’ll just end up tearing each other apart.  


He needs to make sure that he and Skywalker never set foot in the same Jaeger.  


A glance at the clock reveals that he needs to head down toward the Kwoon if he’s going to get there on time and avoid a lecture from Windu. Muttering thanks and a short goodbye to Mundi, he slips out into the ebb and flow of the shatterdome’s halls. There seems to be a great number of other pilots and technicians heading in the same direction as him, but this isn’t surprising. His status as a single pilot and inability to drift has made him the center of his fair share of gossip; there’s even a betting pool for whether or not he’ll ever find a compatible partner. As such, there always a crowd when word gets out that he’s up for testing with another pilot.  


When he arrives at the Kwoon for their spar however, pushing his way through the crowd hovering outside the doorway, Obi-Wan finds the room suspiciously empty of… well… just about everyone. It’s just him, standing there in his workout gear, and Marshal Yoda seated on one of the benches that line the walls. It is both underwhelming and foreboding at once. If Yoda wouldn’t have his ass for smoking, he might have fished a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit up in attempt to calm his nerves. Seeing as he can’t, he takes to pacing instead.  


Yoda, for his part, doesn’t seem particularly taken aback by this situation. The aging Marshal doesn’t hold any official power any more, having passed his title to Windu a few years back, but the respect he’s earned over the course of his life has made him instrumental in the shatterdome’s operation even now. He’s consulted on everything from deployments to pilot pairings, which is why he’s here to oversee Kenobi and Skywalker’s spar. Being one of the founding members of this shatterdome and having watched dozens of pilot pairs come and go, he’s got a keen eye for picking out who will and who won’t be compatible in the drift during these initial spars.  


Obi-Wan desperately hopes that he doesn’t like what he sees.  


There’s no clock in the room, so Obi-Wan doesn’t know how long they wait for the rest of their party to arrive. It feels like hours, but he’s well aware of the way anxiety can warp his perceptions. In truth, it’s probably no longer than a few minutes before he hears the racket announcing their approach. And boy, does he hear it. Hissing and spitting, somebody shouting, the thump of flesh against flesh and a pained noise as somebody winds up on the receiving end of a blow. None of it helps to assuage his fear that this is going to end in anything less than disaster.  


When Skywalker does arrive, he does so in style: thrown into the room by the back of his shirt by a flushed and furious Windu. The Marshal’s nose is bleeding, clearly having been the one to take Skywalker’s punch as he attempted to wrangle the protesting ranger through the gathered crowd and into the Kwoon. Skywalker hits the mats hard, splayed out motionless for a long moment as he attempts to get his bearings after the impact. Obi-Wan can smell the alcohol on him from here.  


“Try that again, and I’ll rip your fucking arm off,” Skywalker snarls, pushing himself to his hands and knees and turning his face up to glare at Windu. Obi-Wan feels his breath catch in his throat when he gets a good look at the ranger.  


The Skywalker before him is not the same man that smirked up at him in the photo included with his personnel file. His right arm glimmers in the low, unobtrusive light of the room—a prosthetic, seemingly modeled after Jaeger tech. Wires and gold plating have replaced his right hand and forearm, meeting scarred flesh just short of the elbow. From there the scarring travels upward, creating a trail of pale patterns against his tanned skin. Up and up, over his shoulder and his neck, then across the right side of his face. It bisects his cheek and his eye, stopping around halfway up his forehead. The corresponding eye is covered in a milky film, unseeing.  


Skywalker may have fared better in his Jaeger’s fall than his copilot, but he certainly didn’t make it out unscathed.  


“Get up, Skywalker,” Windu snaps, clearly having had enough of the younger man’s antics. “You know damn well you couldn’t even take down a green cadet right now.”  


The ranger rises unsteadily to his feet, wobbling as muscle memory clashes with what his brain perceives to be his center of balance. “Why don’t you come over here and try me?”  


“No need,” Windu says, not rising to the bait. He strides over to a bin on the far side of the room instead; Obi-Wan knows its contents to be a variety of practice weapons for the sake of training and compatibility spars. Long staffs are typically used in this situation, so Obi-Wan feels a flash of surprise when the Marshal draws two wooden swords from the bin. Skywalker, he realizes, must also prefer bladed combat to the guns and gadgets favored by many of the other pilot pairs. “That’s what Kenobi is here for.”  


One of the swords is tossed his way; Obi-Wan catches it, spinning the hilt in his hand to get a feel for its weight. Skywalker is less successful, fumbling the weapon when he misjudges the distance. “I don’t want another copilot,” the younger man hisses.  


In this, they are agreed.  


Skywalker’s gaze shifts to him for the first time since he entered the room, taking him in with a critical sneer. Obi-Wan doesn’t have to be told that he looks a mess—probably nearly as bad as Skywalker, actually. His clothes hang off his frame from the weight he’s lost, there are dark bags under his eyes from the sleep he’s missed, and the bandages on his wrists tell an unmistakable story. He hasn’t even bothered to cut his hair or trim up his beard, both of which have gone a bit shaggy in the passing weeks. They make a ridiculous pair, he and Skywalker; this is never going to work.  


“Take your positions,” Windu announces, stepping off the mats and over to Yoda’s side. “First to four points takes the match.”  


Obi-Wan finds his place at one end of the mat while Skywalker moves to the other, apparently giving up on words. Windu is notoriously stubborn, and no amount arguing will get them out of this now that he’s made up his mind; it’s the reason Obi-Wan hadn’t even bothered. Better to simply get the spar out of the way and prove their incompatibility through action. Each falls into their opening stance, waiting for the Marshal to call the start of the first round.  


When it does, Skywalker charges—as reckless as Mundi said he would be. Obi-Wan easily dodges the younger man’s swing, side-stepping and catching him across the back with the blade as he passes. Skywalker is nearly upended by the impact, the lack of balance suggested in his earlier movements made painfully clear. The contact wins Obi-Wan the first point, and Skywalker grits his teeth as they fall into their opening stances once again.  


The second round ends much the same as the first, lasting only marginally longer. Skywalker is completely defenseless against Obi-Wan’s attacks as he tries to keep the older pilot in his limited field of vision, only to be caught across the ribs with a strike when he stumbles halfway through a turn.  


“You’re overcompensating,” Obi-Wan hears himself say, the correction more reflex than conscious decision. He and Qui-Gon used to spar with the younger rangers, once upon a time, in hopes of helping them live a bit longer on the battlefield. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. “Your body knows what it’s supposed to do; just listen to it.”  


“Fuck you,” Skywalker spits, and Obi-Wan takes what is perhaps an undue amount of pleasure in the sound of his blade cracking against the younger ranger’s jaw at the end of the third round.  


There is no official start to the fourth round. Skywalker pushes himself to his feet and charges Obi-Wan once again, but for all his stubborn attitude, he seems to have listened. He falls into a form naturally counter to Obi-Wan’s own, allowing muscle memory to take over as they dance across the mats. Neither of them see the flicker of _something_ across Windu’s face when Skywalker successfully deflects a blow aimed at his blind side, having read Obi-Wan’s body language and anticipated the attack.  


They can, however, feel _it_ —the unmistakable pull of connection. Obi-Wan hasn’t felt it with anyone, anyone, since he was a fresh out of the academy and facing Qui on these very same mats. He feels it in every blow Skywalker successfully blocks; feels it in the way they weave around each other, locked in a stalemate.  


They’re drift compatible.  


It’s horrible, unthinkable, and Obi-Wan hates it. He hates knowing it and hates knowing that Skywalker feels it too. The younger man is growing increasingly flustered, face reddening with his frustration as the realization of their connection sinks in, and suddenly the tone of their fight feels less and less like a spar. This is not what either of them wanted; this is not what either of them expected. Anger and blame fuel every strike and stab as they slide further from the purpose of the exercise. It’s no longer a test—it’s about causing the other pain.  


Obi-Wan’s blade comes to a swift halt when Skywalker unexpectedly drops his own weapon, the ranger’s prosthetic hand catching Obi-Wan’s sword mid-swing. The blade is wrenched from his grip, sent skittering across the room, and then Skywalker is on him. The younger man tackles him to the floor with an animal snarl, and Obi-Wan can only struggle weakly under the following assault.  


He may have had the upper hand in swordplay, but Obi-Wan is at a severe disadvantage in a bare-knuckle brawl. Skywalker is bigger and heavier than him even on a good day, and Obi-Wan hasn’t had a good day in weeks. The meals he’s missed make themselves apparent when Skywalker easily pins him to the mat, his flailing all but useless in the face of the other ranger’s power. He’s been taught a dozen ways to get out from someone’s hold, but fear and pain wipe them all from Obi-Wan’s mind the instant Skywalker’s prosthetic makes contact with his face. The metal easily breaks skin, breaks his nose, and he can feel hot blood oozing down his lips and chin as Skywalker hits him again and again and _again_.  


It only stops when two of the other rangers observing their spar—Quinlan Vos and Kit Fisto—rush forward, dragging Skywalker off him and to the far side of the room. Fisto’s copilot, Bant Eerin, kneels at Obi-Wan’s side, helping sit up any steadying him when the pain threatens to double him over again. Skywalker spits and snarls abuse at him, writhing in the other rangers’ grips, and Obi-Wan would probably throw it right back if only he could think straight.  


His eyes tick up to where Windu stands at Yoda’s side, and dread pools cold in his gut at the calculating look in the two Marshals’ eyes.  



	3. Chapter 3

Bant holds Obi-Wan's hair back as he heaves into a biohazard bin, her other hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Honestly, he's surprised that he managed keep everything down until he got to medical; a part of him was certain that his breakfast was going to end up all over the hallway floor. At this point he's mostly just throwing up bile, stomach long emptied of anything solid. Several times he'd thought himself in control at last, only for the nausea to come flooding back when he accidentally glances at the flimsy, fabric partition separating his cot and Skywalker’s.

The younger ranger has, at this point, ceased his yowling at the medical staff. This is due more to the fact that they've sedated him than any personal preference on Skywalker's part, but Obi-Wan is still thankful for the silence. When he can't hear Skywalker, he can almost pretend he's not there. He can almost pretend this horrible day never happened. Then he remembers, and he's sick, and he owes the first nurse to discover that he's not quite as controlled as he seems an apology.

It's hard to forget, with all the pain he's in. Obi-Wan doesn’t think there's a part of him that isn't sore. His disused muscles ache; he hasn't had to work that hard in a spar since his last practice session with Qui. The last round with Skywalker had taken more out of him than he expected. On top of that, his entire face is pulsing with discomfort. Skywalker's prosthetic had certainly done its damage; his entire damn face is tender and bruised. The nurses have already reset his nose—he's got tissue stuffed up his nostrils in attempt to stop him from further bleeding all over himself—and his left eye has swollen completely shut. What painkillers they’ve given him don't even take the edge off due to the low dosage. There is apparently a note in his psych profile about a substance abuse problem.

Sometimes (most of the time) Obi-Wan hates Vokara Che.

"You're alright," Bant croons, petting him gently as he gasps raggedly for breath between heaves. "You're safe."

She says that, but the man who beat him senseless is literally in the next bed over. Restrained and unconscious, sure, but Obi-Wan would bet Skywalker could find a way around that if he really wanted another go at him.

He almost wishes he would—almost wishes that no one stops him, next time.

"Honestly, what the hell were they thinking?" His friend continues. "Pairing you and Skywalker together was a recipe for disaster. Everyone knew it. There's a reason they haven't been able to find him another copilot since Ahsoka. He's reckless, and angry, and violent—"

"Yes, I had figured that out on my own," Obi-Wan says dryly, glancing up from the bin to offer his friend a weak grin.

It must be terrible, or perhaps he just looks that bad, because the look he gets in return is more pitying than amused. "At least it's over," she says, before adding with a wry twitch of lips, "Yoda had to have seen how bad a match you two make, no matter how poor his eyesight is."

Obi-Wan knows she's trying to be helpful, to cheer him up, but that doesn't stop the way his blood turns to ice in his veins all over again as he remembers the outcome of their spar. Bant and the other pilots may not have been able to see it, but that doesn't change what Obi-Wan felt.

"It's not over," he murmurs, turning his face away from Bant and staring at the partition instead. He can't deny it, no matter how much he wants to. He is to be bound to the man on the other side of that curtain, even if it kills them. "They're going to throw us into a jaeger, Bant. Skywalker and I are drift compatible."

When he looks back, the expression on Bant's face is like a fresh punch to the gut. His friend is clearly trying to keep it together, but he can read the sorrow in the twitch of her lips and the horror in her eye. "Obi-Wan, you can be serious!" Bant exclaims, shaking her head in denial.

As much as he'd like to comfort her, to tell her it was nothing more than an ill-thought jest, he has no reassurances. "I felt it," he forces himself to explain. It hurts worse, he thinks, to admit it aloud. As though speaking the words has suddenly made them real. "I felt a... A pull to him like I hadn't felt with anyone. Not since Qui."

"No! You're mistaken. They're mistaken. You can't drift with him if you can't even get through one spar without nearly killing each other!"

"They don't need us to like each other," Obi-Wan sighs, shoulders slumping. "They just need us to fight. If that spar proved anything, it's that our combat styles are compatible—even if our personalities aren't."

"I'm not going to let them do this to you, Obi-Wan!"

"What do you think you can do, Bant? Leave?"

"If that would make them realize—"

"And where would that leave Kit?" He asks, drawing the woman's angry tirade to a halt. It's a low blow, but Obi-Wan doesn't have any other cards to play.

Bant pauses, a wounded expression crossing her face as she realizes that Obi-Wan has backed her into a corner. She's seen the damage a lost copilot can do; the proof is right in front of her. She would never abandon Kit, who had so happily taken her on as his copilot when Bant graduated the academy, to that fate. To the struggle of finding that connection with another. "He's going to get himself killed, Obi-Wan," she says. "He's going to get himself killed, and he's going to take you with him."

"Maybe I deserve it," he mumbles under his breath, low enough that he thinks Bant can't hear him.

As such, it comes as quite a surprise when she strikes him across the face. Granted there's not much damage she can do that hasn't already been done, but the fresh wave of pain drags him from his melancholy thoughts.

"You stupid man! Don't you ever say something like that again!" She shouts, drawing the attention of the nurses puttering about the ward. They all look torn between interfering on behalf of their patient and letting Bant put the fear of god in him. Stars knows their lives would be easier if they weren't having to hover over Obi-Wan's shoulder all the time. "You're not the only one who would be effected if you got yourself killed! Believe it or not, we care for you! All of us! We're a fucking family Obi-Wan, and family looks out for each other. Qui-Gon's death wasn't your fault, no matter what that bastard Dooku says! You don't deserve to die."

She storms from the ward, eyes glazed with tears, when he doesn't respond. It hurts to know that he's wounded his friend so badly, but Obi-Wan can't make himself agree with her. If he'd just been braver, maybe things would have been different. If he hadn't hesitated, maybe Qui would still be alive. As far as he's concerned, death is the only thing he deserves.

A nurse comes over to check on him when she's gone, changing his bandages and taking away the bucket. The nausea has finally subsided, having come to terms with the reality of his situation. Obi-Wan won't be allowed to leave the ward until their first drift, too much of a danger to himself, so he makes himself comfortable on the thin mattress.

He doesn't realize that Skywalker had woken during the course of his argument with Bant, nor does he feel the man's gaze settle on the curtain separating them. Instead, there is only the hollowness in his chest as he waits for the inevitable.

They come for him and Skywalker the next morning. It is to everyone's surprise that Obi-Wan is the more difficult of the pair to wrestle into his suit. The tan fabric of the circuitry suit is clinging, strangling, in a way he knows is irrational but can't quite stop feeling. By the time they've got him stuffed into the pilot's suit, he's exhausted his extensive vocabulary of insults twice over.

Skywalker, on the other hand, is almost worryingly docile as he allows the techs to help him into his own uniform. He's silent, morose—resigned to their fate. Obi-Wan almost wants to get him riled up again just so they might have a chance of getting out of this. Maybe it just hasn't sunk in for Skywalker yet, and fight or flight will kick in on the way.

In contrast to the plain creams and beiges of Obi-Wan's uniform, Skywalker's piloting suit is a striking maroon. The crest of his former jaeger, a white silhouette of an owl in flight, is emblazoned across the breastplate along with the traditional tally of Kaiju killed. Nobody had bothered to repaint either of their gear to match, as copilots traditionally do. Perhaps they thought it a waste of time, considering the risk of this next step. No point in wasting valuable resources if they can't fall into alignment or end up killing each other in their first drift. Considering Obi-Wan's track record with potential copilots, it's probably the smart decision.

They're escorted to the jaeger bay, and it feels like the eyes of every person in the shatterdome are following them as they go. Obi-Wan's skin is crawling, though that probably has more to do with his anxiety than their stares. At his side, separated from Obi-Wan by a security officer, Skywalker stares blankly ahead, apparently unfazed by all the attention. Obi-Wan wonders if he's actually as calm as he appears, or if he's just better at hiding it.

The fact that they aren't trusted to walk together doesn't bode particularly well for their future as a pair

In the jaeger bay, the Horizon Light stands proud and tall. There is still repair work to be done before she's ready to get out in the field, but a harried-looking technician assures him that her neural functions are operating at full capacity. They shouldn't have any trouble with the drift—at least, not from her end. The behavior of machines is easy to predict; the behavior of men much less so.

An elevator trip later finds them ushered across a short walkway leading to the Horizon's conn-pod. Obi-Wan falters at the entrance, and again once he's inside. The first time it is memory that forces him to a halt, remembering his last mission with Qui and the trail of injured cadets he's since left in his wake. The second time is because it occurs to him that he doesn't know which harness Skywalker prefers.

Obi-Wan himself prefers the left, being dominant in his left hand, but Skywalker's injuries may force him to take the left harness. Fortunately (or perhaps worryingly) the man breezes past him before he's worked up the courage to ask, striding purposefully toward the right.

"Are you going to be alright over there?" He still finds himself asking, unable to simply bite his tongue and accept the good fortune.

"Mind your own business, Kenobi," Skywalker retorts.

A part of him wants to snap back that it is, actually, his business as they're going to be sharing a mind in a few minutes, but he holds himself back when he catches Skywalker fumbling with the various straps and snaps associated with the harness. He is, if the trembling in his organic hand is to be believed, just as worried as Obi-Wan about this.

At one point in his life, the ritual of hooking himself into the pilot's harness had been a familiar, soothing pattern that helped to settle wayward nerves. Not now, though. Now, memories lurk in the back of Obi-Wan's mind, and Skywalker's brilliantly colored armor is always present in the corner of his eye. His hands are shaking too, and he's sure he would be covered in sweat if the circuitry suit didn't immediately wick it away. There is no stopping this now, Obi-Wan realizes as the Horizon's view screen flickers to life.

"Good morning, boys." Mundi's voice cuts through the silence of the conn-pod, and Obi-Wan heaves a sigh of relief that he'll be the one supervising their first drift. "How are we feeling this morning?"

Skywalker makes a noncommittal noise that Obi-Wan happens to agree with. They're anxious, unhappy, but unable to really protest their situation without drawing further ire from their superiors.

"Everything be alright," Mundi soothes as he prepares them for the drift. Obi-Wan can hear keys clicking on his side of the com link as punches commands into his terminal. "You've done this a hundred times."

Yes they've done this a hundred times, but they've done this willing copilots. Compatible copilots. Not with a man who beat them senseless without the slightest bit of remorse only yesterday. Obi-Wan's face still aches, and he saw bandages around Skywalker's chest when he was dressing; apparently his strike had cracked a rib or two.

"Are we ready, gentlemen?"

Obi-Wan glances over at Skywalker, but the younger man is staring fixedly at the view screen, refusing to look at him. "As we'll ever be," Obi-Wan wearily replies.

There is no warning for them; no gentle reminders not to go chasing RABITs. They're rangers, experienced pilots, and should rightfully know better. It'd be a lost cause anyways—no amount of reminders has been able to stop Obi-Wan from being dragged into the pits of memory.

"Beginning pilot to pilot protocol," a gentle, robotic voice announces over the speaker, "Activating drift sequence in 5... 4... 3... 2..."

Their minds come together in a violent clash of light and sound.

_Obi-Wan at thirteen, chewing on the end of his pen in class, gazing distractedly out the window. He knows already what they're being taught, and the teachers have learned it's easier to leave him be than force compliance--_

_Obi-Wan at twenty-five, standing before a classroom of young, innocent faces. This is what he wanted, what he dreamed about since his youth, but something's not right. He's not happy, just resigned. Resigned to this monotony because what else could he do—_

_Obi-Wan at thirty-three, staring up at Qui-Gon Jinn as the ranger towers above him. His copilot, he knows, somewhere in his gut. His copilot—_

_Obi-Wan at thirty-eight, and Maul's massive jaws are clamped around the Horizon's conn-pod. Serrated teeth gnash and gnaw, weakening the hull, and there's panic curled heavy in Obi-Wan's gut. The creature's four arms hold them in a crushing grip, and Obi-Wan can feel the beast’s claws digging into the Horizon's armor playing as though they were tearing at his own flesh. They need to get away, they need to escape, they need to wait for reinforcement, they need—_

_"Obi-Wan!? Qui shouts as Maul suddenly lets go, trying to draw him from his panic. "Obi-Wan, listen to m—"_

_All it took was that, that one moment of hesitation and Maul shoves them back. They're distracted, they stumble out of sync, and then the kaiju charges, ramming them with the bone spires that protrude from its skull. They tear easily through the already damaged hull, and the pain flares up Obi-Wan’s side when_ _one of the horns grazes him is quickly forgotten when he glances over at Qui._

_Qui-Gon chokes, a terrible, wet noise, and paints the inside of his helmet red when he coughs up blood. It's everywhere, getting everywhere, seeping through Qui's armor and dripping down into the Horizon's gears when Maul pulls its horns free with the sound of rending metal and—_

_—and there's pain, pain, so much pain. He can feel blood dribbling down his face from the open wound, stinging and blinding the eye that's still functional; can feel himself weakening as it flows freely from the place his arm should be, but isn't; can hear the gurgle of water as the conn-pod fills. Oh god, oh god. He's stuck in the harness, suspended above it, and he can't get loose. Below him, it's already swallowed up Ahsoka. Ahsoka, his sister, his everything, consumed by the horrible, swirling black depths, and he can't get free._

_What would it matter if he could? He can't swim._

This not Obi-Wan's memory, he realizes with horror. Somehow, Skywalker has dragged him away—dragged him down into the swirl of his memories.

"Obi-Wan? Anakin? You're both out of alignment!" Someone is calling, familiar and comforting, but he can't focus on anything but the chaos of Skywalker's thoughts.

It's like the raging hurricane, battering at Obi-Wan's own mind until he can do nothing but yield as it all comes pouring in.

_He's six and happy in his mother's arms, the little they have enough for him. He’s too young to understand why she must take so frequent breaks when they play, why she spends so much time in the hospital, why she seems to be withering away with each passing day—_

_He's nine and alone, and there's a girl crying on the playground that no one seems to hear. They ignore her as they play, careless and free. She is not like them. She, like Anakin, belongs nowhere and has no one. If they won't hear her, he will. He'll hear her and together they’ll be the family that neither of them has—_

_He's twenty and she's graduating high school top of her class, their acceptance letters to the academy weighing heavy in his pocket. They're going to do this together, until the very end. They're going to win this war and protect their planet and he's going to protect her until the moment he can't—_

It's too much, too much, filling him up and up and up until Obi-Wan is certain that he's going to burst. The emptiness in his mind is replaced with a storm, and now that's opened the door, he can't close it again. Skywalker's conscience clings, needy and desperate and demanding. Obi-Wan wonders how anyone can do anything with a head so full of noise.

Then, suddenly, there is silence. Silence, deafeningly loud in his ears, that he hasn't heard in so long. Not the aching, consuming quiet of loss, but a soft calm. Suddenly, there is only the drift.

"They're stabilizing," he hears Mundi say, relief heavy in his voice as his senses return focus to the outside world. "Skywalker? Kenobi? Are you back with us?"

Obi-Wan's gaze drops to stare at his hands in an impulse that might be Skywalker's, but might his. They bring their hands up, marveling at them as they turn in sync, and hear the whine of machinery as the Horizon does the same.

"Careful, boys," Mundi chides. "She's not at one hundred percent yet. Don't get carried away. You both alright?"

"How long were we out?" Obi-Wan asks, feeling the strain of an extended drift catching up with him. It takes time for a pilot pair to build up the endurance needed to stay connected for long period. Traditionally, this first attempt should have only lasted a few minutes.

"Almost an hour." An hour. They should have cut the drift as soon as they went unresponsive. Why had they not— "Yoda said you'd work it out eventually. Guess he was right."

A desire to punch the little troll in his smug face rushes over Obi-Wan, which definitely originated from Skywalker. He feels his lips twitch, the first real smile he's worn in ages.

"I'm going to cut you off now, alright? We got what we needed from this run."

"Alright," Skywalker says, and the voice returns to tell them that the drift sequence is disengaging.

Obi-Wan doesn't understand why he feels like he's lost all over again when his mind is once again his own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you got a double notification about this chapter being posted, it was having some weird issues the first go and I had to take it down again. Round two should be better.
> 
> I went back through the first three chapters and made some mild edits. Nothing that will change the story at all. Mostly just correcting terminology things so that they lined up better with the source material.
> 
> Obi-Wan’s quarters are modeled after what we see the Beckett brothers sharing in their introductory sequence at the Anchorage Shatterdone. Raleigh & Mako have quarters with a different layout in Hong Kong, but I like the dorm/apartment-style layout better.

By the time Obi-Wan is released back to his quarters, having been forced through another medical and psychological evaluation following his and Skywalker’s successful drift, he is not altogether surprised to find Quinlan Vos already waiting. The other ranger leans casually against the cool, metal door to Obi-Wan’s quarters, a pile of empty cardboard boxes at his feet and a bottle of something in his hands. Whatever Quinlan has brought in offering is probably alcoholic and definitely prohibited on base, which is the only reason Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately turn him away and lick his wounds in peace. He has a feeling that he’s going to need to get wasted if he’s going to deal with how drastically his life has changed over the last two days.

“Hey there, Kenobi,” Vos greets. “Word on the grapevine is that we’ve got some celebrating to do. Your reign of terror over defenseless cadets has finally been brought to an end!”

"And how much money did you make off the betting pools with the end of my... What was it? 'Reign of terror'?"

Quinlan's smile turns from teasing to smug. "Enough that I can afford a few more bottles of this," he replies, shaking the drink in his hand meaningfully. "Now are you going to let me in before we get caught with prohibited liquor, or should I just head to Windu's office now and save myself the trouble?"

Obi-Wan huffs, but pushes past him to stuff his key into the lock and open the door. When he does, Quin passes him the bottle, freeing up his hands so that he can collect the stack of cardboard boxes on the floor. "Still had these laying around from when they moved me in with Aayla," he explains. "Figured I'd help you pack your shit up, if you want. The brass give you and Skywalker your room assignment yet?"

"No," Obi-Wan replies, shutting the door behind the other man and cutting off the chatter of passersby in the hall. "They're going to move us tomorrow; there is apparently some debate over where we should be moved to. Half the brass think we need space to get to know each other; the other half think we need close supervision lest we kill each other in the process."

Quinlan barks a sharp laugh, weaving his way through the room to settle in the chair at Obi-Wan's desk. His quarters, at the moment, are hardly fit for decent company. Cleanliness tends to get pushed to the wayside when it's a struggle to simply get out of bed in the morning.

There are clothes strewn across the floor, mugs of half-finished tea resting across any available flat surfaces. Qui-Gon's things are still packed in a stack of boxes beside the desk, with the exception of a small potted plant that rests on the desk's surface among a collection of orange prescription bottles, varyingly full. He hasn't worked up the will to go through it all, yet. If anyone else had seen this place, Obi-Wan would be embarrassed. Quinlan Vos does not classify as decent company, however, so he simply makes his way to the cot, dropping onto it while his friend searches out something to drink from.

Vos pulls two empty, questionably clean mugs from the refuse littered about, blowing into them to clear them of dirt before pouring them both a healthy portion of the liquor. "I hope they aren't intending on monitoring you too closely," he says. "You know what they say about jaeger pilots: if they aren't family, they're fucking."

"You and Miss Secura are not related, nor are you engaged in sexual congress," Obi-Wan points out. "If you were, you wouldn't be here sharing your liquor with me."

"Give it time," Vos replies in a salacious purr. Obi-Wan makes to grab for one of the cups, but Quinlan yanks it out of reach at the last moment. "You aren't on any pain meds or anything, are you? For what Skywalker did to your face?"

"You know Che won't let them give me anything anymore, Quin," Obi-Wan huffs, snatching the cup from him and taking a deep drag from it. The alcohol burns as it goes down, making him grimace, but settles fairly well in his stomach. "Substance abuse problem my ass," he mutters, and pointedly ignores Quin's glance at the pill bottles on the desk; at the empty bottles stuffed in a corner. Instead he glances around the room, taking in the destruction he's wrought these past few weeks. It'd been impeccably clean before, to the point of infuriating Qui. Now it’s starting to look like Quin’s quarters. "This place is a wreck. We're going to be here all night." "Good thing I brought plenty of booze, then," Quin replies, leaning forward to top off Obi-Wan’s drink.

They’re both good and plastered by the time they decide to start packing up Obi-Wan’s things. The liquor is potent, doing its job before they’ve managed to down even half the bottle. Quin takes one of the boxes and starts emptying the wardrobe while Obi-Wan collects the dirty clothes off the floor in his own. Both are appropriately marked, and Obi-Wan can’t help but note that the latter is far fuller than the first. He can’t actually remember the last time he took his things to the laundry; it’s a small miracle he managed to last this long without having to resort to reusing outfits. Trash is stuffed in the can, dishes piled in the sink. They will have to deal with those things in the morning, as they don’t have the patience for it now.

There is something almost soothing in the mindless work of cleaning up. Obi-Wan used to enjoy it, before Qui’s death, and finds himself easily slipping back into that feeling as he wipes a rag over the desk and other flat surfaces to clear away the settled dust. The smell of disinfectant and clean is a pleasant change of pace from the must that’d settled over the space.

“What are you gonna do with this stuff?” Vos asks, nudging the boxes of Qui’s things to draw Obi-Wan’s attention to them. “I know you probably don’t want to go through them, but are you taking all this crap with you?”

“It’s not crap,” Obi-Wan mutters, batting Quinlan’s hands away when he makes to open the top container. They’re moved carefully to over by the door, where the rest of the filled boxes have been stacked for easy transport in the morning.

“Now, you see, I knew Qui-Gon Jinn,” Quin presses, trailing behind Obi-Wan as he works. “The man hoarded junk like an old lady hoards cats, so I am almost positive that most of the stuff in those boxes is, actually—”

“Shut up, Quinlan!” Obi-Wan snaps, dropping the last box on the pile with more force than necessary and rounding on the man. “I won’t have you talking about him like that in my own damn quarters!”

Vos raises his hands in a placating gesture, trying to calm Obi-Wan’s ire. Considering the amount they’ve both had to drink, it’s not particularly successful. “I’m just trying to help, man.”

"I do not need your help, Quinlan."

"Yes you do; this isn't healthy, Obi-Wan."

"And you're just the epitome of mental health, are you?" Kenobi sneers. “Getting drunk every night and hooking up with anyone who’ll spread their legs for you?”

"At least I can get more than fucking ibuprofen when my copilot nearly caves my skull in," Vos shoots back. "You're never going to move forward with Skywalker if you're still clinging to the past like this!"

"There is no 'moving forward' with Skywalker! We're conn-pod partners, that's it! One drift hasn't made me care for him. I’m _never_ going to care for him, just as he’s never going to care for me."

Vos’ lips twitch triumphantly, and Obi-Wan knows what’s about to come out of his mouth before it does. "That's not what they saw down in medical, after you got out of the pod."

"They don't know what they saw," Obi-Wan hisses. "Now if you're quite done making an ass of yourself, I would like you to leave."

A wounded expression crosses Quin's face, but it's wiped away almost as quickly as it came. "Whatever, man," Quin mutters, pressing past him and out the door. "Keep up your damn shit-show. See if I care."

The door slams shut behind him, and Obi-Wan’s anger drains as abruptly as it swelled. It leaves him weary—even more so than the extended drift he’d taken with Skywalker earlier had. He shouldn’t have snapped at Quinlan like that, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There is nothing between him and Skywalker, nor will there ever be. What happened in medical was… a fluke. A side effect of spending too much time tied too each other’s mind too soon.

There are always side effects of long drifts. Ghost Drifting is the most common: a period of time after the completion of a drift where the pilot’s minds seem to somehow remain connected. It’s never as intense as a true drift—there is never transference of thought or memory—but there is the occasional tingle of phantom sensation, or an ability to predict your copilot’s decisions and movements before they make them. Drift specialists chalk it up to their brains still operating on the same wavelength once the bond of the drift is severed, slowly returning to their usual thought patterns as they spend time apart. This, however, is only speculation as studies of Ghost Drifting have been wholly inconclusive.

Despite their strangeness, Ghost Drifts are regarded as one of the more innocent side effects of the drift. More dangerous consequences have been recorded, from codependency between pilots to a total loss of identity. Obi-Wan suspects that these are more what he and Skywalker experienced when they were finally separated. There is no other explanation—not for their behavior. Not for the way Skywalker had clung to him while they set through their medical examinations, the line of his body pressed into Obi-Wan’s side as if that point of contact were the only thing keeping him from simply fading away to nothing. Not for the way Obi-Wan had allowed that touch, soothing the man who had beaten him senseless only a day ago when the nurses had to poke and prod at Skywalker’s cracked ribs and—

The mug of Quinlan’s half-finished drink, which Obi-Wan had collected under the intention of returning it to the sink with its brethren, shatters against the wall. It makes a racket, all those little pieces of ceramic falling to patter onto the tile floor, but there is no one to hear. No one to care. The quarters next to his have been empty for weeks, since they brought him Qui-Gon’s things in a neat stack of cardboard boxes and gave him their deepest condolences for the death of his partner. Like that would make him feel better. Like that would patch the psychic wound gouged into the back of his mind as Qui-Gon bled to death in the conn-pod of their jaeger.

Obi-Wan does not care for Anakin Skywalker. One drift can’t change that—can’t plant feeling in his mind. No matter what the medical staff think they saw. They’d been in the drift too long, too soon. That’s all.

Turning from the spattering of alcohol that’s slowly tricking its way down the wall, Obi-Wan chugs the rest of his own portion before dumping the mug in the sink. He can’t deal with any more of this tonight. The rest of the bottle of liquor, which Quinlan had forgotten in his abrupt departure, is tucked safely away among his clothes in one of the boxes. If he’s caught with alcohol by anyone other than Quin or a handful of others, it’ll certainly be taken away and he’ll be back in the medical bay under observation. Now, with Quin pissed at him and no guarantee of reconciliation anytime soon, he’d rather not take any more risks than necessary.

Dropping onto the familiar, lumpy mattress of his cot, Obi-Wan allows the drink to drag him down into unconsciousness.

It feels like he’s only just fallen asleep when he’s startled awake by the sound of someone pounding at his door. Obi-Wan groans, grasping at his head as though the pressure will stop the throbbing in his skull. His mouth tastes like something curled up and died inside it overnight, and his stomach is twisting itself in knots. Of all the things he missed about alcohol during his forced reprieve, hangovers certainly weren’t one of them.

“Kenobi?” A familiar voice calls through the metal of the door, starting into another round of banging as though it will get him to answer faster. “Kenobi are you in there?”

“One moment, Aayla,” he calls out as he attempts to sit up, if only to make her stop her insistent pounding. The world spins around him in an unpleasant sensation as he fumbles for the shirt he must have stripped off overnight. When he’s presentable, the patterned burn scars his circuitry suit left behind hidden safely away beneath fabric, he somehow manages to make it across the room to throw open the door.

Waiting just outside, arms crossed in impatience, is Aayla Secura. Quinlan’s copilot is just a few years younger than him, built strong and sturdy. Today she’s got her turquoise-dyed hair pulled back into two braids and tucked beneath a brown bandana that matches the color of her leather bomber jacket. “You look like shit, Obi-Wan,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Good morning to you, too,” he replies, squinting against the fluorescents in hall—too much for his sensitive eyes to handle at the moment. “What brings you to my door at this hour?”

Aayla uncrosses her arms, waving a strip of paper that’s clamped between her fingers. “Got your new room assignment. Quin said he was coming over here to help you pack last night, then came back in a tiff. Figured you’d need some help getting your things to your new place, since I’m doubting Skywalker’s going to come around to offer his assistance.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says with a weak chuckle. He isn’t sure why that thought makes his heart contract painfully in his chest. “No, I’d imagine he isn’t.”

Even with the hindrance of his hangover, it’s easy to finish collecting his things with Aayla’s aid. Before he knows it they’re loading all his boxes onto a dolly that’s waiting in the hall, and Obi-Wan is hit with the starting revelation that he’s leaving these quarters. Sure he’d thought about it before—he’d packed all his things!—but the full extent of what that means doesn’t seem to have registered until now. He’s going to be moving out of these quarters. He’s leaving this chapter of his life behind. He’d going to spend the rest of this war, or the rest of his life, at Anakin Skywalker’s side—whichever comes first.

The only thing he can think as he follows Aayla through the halls of the shatterdome to his new quarters, is that it should have been Qui-Gon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke is that Quinlan Vos will never get laid.


	5. Chapter 5

Skywalker's pained grunt echoes through the Kwoon as he topples to the mats one again. His practice staff rolls away, bumping into Obi-Wan's leg where the older man sits in meditation. For a long moment, he considers not acknowledging Skywalker's latest failed attempt at running through his forms. The last couple of times had been met only with snappish replies, but Obi-Wan has always been a teacher at heart. He's more accustomed than he'd care to admit to the petulance of unwilling students.

"Do you want some help?" He finally cedes, cracking open one eye to watch Skywalker struggle to his feet. The younger ranger is flushed from ears to chest, sweat gleaming against bared skin in the light of the Kwoon. He'd stripped off his tank as soon as the piloting team here before them had left, leaving him bare except for the bandages around his ribs, his dog-tags, and a standard-issue grey fatigue pant that every PPDC employee has at least one set of. Obi-Wan prefers their tan counterparts, but Skywalker's taste seems to run more toward the darker end of the color spectrum.

"No," Skywalker replies, as firm and unhappy as the last few times he's spurned the offer. Obi-Wan does not press further than that, lifting Skywalker's staff by one end and offering the other to maintain the maximum distance between them.

Despite now sharing quarters with Skywalker, who rudely rips the staff from his hands, the pair have rarely come within arm's reach of the other since their encounter in medical. Obi-Wan studiously tells himself that what happened between them was simply a fluke, but he'd rather not test that theory. There are already enough rumors going around about them now that they're officially on record as paired; he doesn't want to give anyone any more fodder than he already has. Which is why these early morning sparring sessions they’ve been assigned in the Kwoon are so nice.

The shatterdome is always bustling with activity, but there is far less foot traffic past the entrance to the Kwoon in the traditional off-hours. It gives them a chance to practice their forms, or meditate in Obi-Wan's case this particular morning, without the hassle of prying eyes. Those who are awake at this hour are too busy to butt their nose into places they don't belong. There is no downtime in war—there is always something to be done. Training, maintenance, research. They are facing an enemy the likes of which have never been seen before; they have to be able adapt as fast as the creatures that climb from the Breach. If you don't adapt, you die.

Obi-Wan, by his own definition, should have been dead a long time ago (In his defense, he did give that one his best effort). Adaptation should come easy for a jaeger pilot, but there are just things you have to draw a line on. Like moving on past your former copilot and the love of your life, or asking for help when you can't quite seem to figure out how to find your center of gravity during a complicated combat maneuver with a new hindrance to your depth perception.

Skywalker hits the mats again; Obi-Wan sighs, and gives up on his meditation. If simply sparring with Skywalker had taken as much out of him as it had during their compatibility test, then he's more out of shape than he though. Considering that the brass is probably going to expect them back in the conn-pod for active duty as soon as Horizon is up and running again, he probably should work on correcting that issue. He may not like Skywalker, but he can't sabotage the younger ranger's chances of survival in the field with sub-par preparation.

Collecting his own staff from the box in the corner, Obi-Wan allows himself to fall into the opening stance of his forms. In the Academy, he'd trained in a more defensive form instead of the offensive that many of the other cadets had preferred. There was always something about the flowing movements and steady pace that drew him in, and when he was partnered with Qui-Gon, that knowledge became an indispensable counterpoint to the man's own aggressive forms.

It is, he notes, watching Skywalker run through his own paces from the corner of his eye, a counterpoint to Skywalker's as well. Obi-Wan hasn't looked into Tano beyond what he's been told and what he saw in Anakin's mind the day of their drift, but he assumes the girl must have specialized in a defensive form as well. That's the only way he can see someone as recklessly aggressive as Skywalker surviving in the field for as long as he has.

It's embarrassing how fast his muscles tire—how little time it takes before Obi-Wan has sweat through his shirt. Unlike Skywalker, who seems to have no problem displaying the scars left by his circuitry suit, Obi-Wan is hesitant to remove the soiled garment and continue his workout bare-chested. It’s a ridiculous thing to be shy about, considering that most jaeger pilots have scarring here or there either from mishaps in training or field combat. Still, he has to consider his options for a very long moment before he strips out of the shirt, folding it neatly and setting it off the mats alongside his boots. Skywalker’s boots and tank have been thrown into a messy pile that makes Obi-Wan’s teeth grind. One of these days he’s going to have to give the boy a lecture about organization.

As he makes his way back to where he’d left off in his routine, he can feel the other ranger’s eyes on his back. Considering his hesitancy to be seen in less than full attire, let alone his unwillingness to even be in Skywalker’s space for more time than he has to be, the raised patterns on his flesh are a new sight. Unlike Skywalker’s own scarring, which is closer to the fractal patterning left behind by a lightning strike, Obi-Wan’s follow a set pattern around his shoulders and chest—an imprint of the circuitry’s suit’s delicate wiring. The suit is only built to conduct the impulses of one hemisphere of the pilot’s brain. The strain of supporting Obi-Wan in single combat had overheated the suit, leaving behind burns still fresh enough to be raised and red.

Pushing Skywalker’s attention to the back of his mind, Obi-Wan falls into the pattern of his forms once again. The soreness of his muscles is effective in wiping all thought from his mind but the focus he has on getting from one position to the next. There is no Skywalker, no jaegers, no kaiju. There is only the routine. Why hadn’t he done this before, again?

Until, that is, Skywalker speaks. “Kenobi?” He asks, sounding strain, snapping the older ranger out of his trance. He glances down at Skywalker, sprawled out on the mats, and realizes that he hadn’t even heard him fall again. Skywalker isn’t looking at him, face turned toward the far wall, but the flush to his skin has deepened to something more red than pink. “I could—I could use some help. If, you know, you’re still offering.”

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to Obi-Wan that Skywalker would ever take him up on the offer of assistance. Now that he’s come down from whatever high ledge he’d been stubbornly clinging to, however, Obi-Wan finds himself quite amicable. “Of course.” He extends a hand, hauling Skywalker to his feet. “What seems to be giving you trouble?”

“You know damn well what—” Skywalker starts, and Obi-Wan watches him have to physically bite back whatever he’d intended to end that sentence with. “It’s this motion. I can’t… find my balance. I can do it fine without the staff, but it something about it keeps tripping me up when I’m armed.”

“Show me.”

Skywalker scowls, but takes the opening stance of his form and, at Obi-Wan’s gesture, begins the routine. This is the first time he’s really had a chance to study the younger ranger uninhibited. Skywalker carries himself with a predatory grace that many young ranger cadets only dream of being able to maintain. He moves with ease, defined muscles shifting and flexing beneath his tanned skin. Sweat beads on his face and along the line of his jaw, rolling down his neck and chest until it's soaked up by the tightly wrapped bandages around his ribs.

Obi-Wan's attention is pulled back to the bigger picture, however, when he sees what's causing Skywalker trouble. A long, sweeping movement of the staff combined with delicate footwork. In the process of passing the weapon behind his back, from his right side to his left, he angles it too far, getting it caught between his legs and sending him tumbling to the floor when he attempts to take the next step in his footwork.

"Fuck!" Skywalker hisses, pushing himself to his feet. "Do you see what I mean?"

"I believe I do," Obi-Wan replies. "Come here, please."

Hesitantly, Skywalker approaches. The last time they were within arm's reach of each other on these mats, they'd beaten each other senseless. He's right to be wary, but Obi-Wan has no ill intentions for him now. Skywalker had asked for his help; he's willing to give it.

Gesturing for Skywalker to turn, he steps up behind the other ranger and places hands on his hips to still his nervous shuffling. Obi-Wan doesn't think about the intimacy of the action: the heat of Skywalker's skin under his palm, the way sweat sticks their skin together, the minute hitch in Skywalker's breathing when Obi-Wan’s own tags brush against the space between Skywalker’s shoulder blades just above his bandages. He's slipped into teaching mode, everything forgotten but aiding the younger ranger in correcting the problems in his form.

"Your problem is the same one I pointed out during out spar," Obi-Wan murmurs, adjusting their posture until they stand in the position right before the move. "You're overcompensating—thinking too hard. Your body know what it's supposed to do, even if you can no longer see what it's doing. You have to let it. Run through it a few times without the staff, and try to really feel what it is you're doing."

Skywalker does, Obi-Wan moving with him and taking in his form as he does so, pausing them here and there to point out a particular extension or shift he believes the younger ranger needs to pay close attention to. He notices the growing tension in Skywalker's form—It would be impossible not to, as close as they are—but isn't sure what's causing it.

Together, they run through pattern twice over. They're halfway through the third when Skywalker breaks from the form mid-stride, elbowing Obi-Wan in the side with a sharp, panicked snarl of, "Get off me!"

Obi-Wan stumbles, caught off guard, and Skywalker is quick to slip away. The younger man rushes from the mats, not even bothering to put on his boots and tank before he continues on and flees the Kwoon, his belongings held awkwardly in front of him. Obi-Wan watches him go, confused and rather annoyed. It's rude to ask for help only to leave before it's given.

With nothing to do, and their scheduled time in the Kwoon nearly over anyways, Obi-Wan makes his way off the mats. Shirt and boots are pulled on, and he returns to their quarters, hoping that whatever had come over Skywalker has passed in the meantime.

When he arrives, the bathroom door is locked and the younger ranger appears to be in the shower. Obi-Wan can hear its steady stream, but little else from inside the room. He’d rather been hoping that Skywalker would use the communal showers, as he’d made a habit of doing in the first few days of their cohabitation, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Instead, Obi-Wan is forced to remain in his sweaty clothes until the younger man is done. He does strip back out of his shirt, however, now that the door is closed and he’s safe from prying eyes.

Glancing around the room, he takes in the signs of their new life. Their personal kitchenware is tucked away in cabinets, still open from where Skywalker must have had a drink upon his return. Leather bomber jackets, emblazoned with the heraldic symbols of their jaegers, are draped on a hook by the bathroom. While they both have continued to wear the old ones, it’s only a matter of time before shows up at the door with a new, matching set in honor of their partnership.

On the back of their door, the Horizon’s logo has been painted in white. It stands out in stark contrast to the aging metal, the empty space below it reserved for their tally of kills. It will still be a few weeks before their first drop, to make sure their partnership sets, but there is already anticipation itching under Obi-Wan’s skin to be out—to take revenge on those creatures for what they did to his copilot. He can’t help but wonder if this is his own thinking, or if it’s something bled over from Skywalker in their last drift. If he had to guess, he would pick the latter.

In the bed area, photos and blueprints are haphazardly taped to the roof and wall around Skywalker’s cot. The drawers in the storage space below the mattress are askew, hastily folded and tucked away clothes spilling out from their confines. A collection of miscellaneous mechanical parts—gears and wires, scraps of metal—litter the surface of the cot, waiting to be meticulously repacked into an open drawer in the storage space below. Skywalker’s half of the space looks comfortable. Lived in. A sharp contrast to Obi-Wan’s own.

Bed made regulation-net, clothes folded and stored, the only personal effects Obi-Wan really has are the boxes of Qui-Gon’s belongings—still yet to be unpacked—and the small, potted plant he’s placed over in the kitchen. He hadn’t had much even before giving up his humble life as a schoolteacher. As a child, he’d had money, notoriety, respect. Anything any everything a little boy could possibly want. By the time he’d struck out on his own, he’d wanted a simpler life. By the time the first kaiju came through the Breach, the material had ceased to matter entirely. There was only the war.

By the time Obi-Wan gathers up a change of clothes, the shower has cut off and Skywalker emerges from a cloud of steam. His hair is still wet, but he’s at least donned a pair of clean pants and a tank that clings to his damp skin. He presses past Obi-Wan, intending to pull his boots on and probably head to breakfast in the mess, but the older ranger catches his arm before he can get away.

“What happened in the Kwoon?” Obi-Wan asks, tightening his grip on Skywalker’s arm when the other ranger attempts to pull himself loose.

“None of your damn business, Kenobi,” Skywalker hisses, shoving Obi-Wan off him with his free arm. “Just drop it.”

“If it was something I did—”

Skywalker steps quickly back into his space, pulling himself up to his full height and using the few inches between them to his advantage. He means to intimidate; Obi-Wan is embarrassed to admit it works. “I said drop it.”Obi-Wan flinches away, and before he can say another word, Skywalker has spun on his heel and stormed from the room. Having not gotten any answers for the younger ranger’s unusual behavior, Obi-Wan grits his teeth, snatching up his fresh clothes and storming into the bathroom. He should have known better than try to help.


	6. Chapter 6

The air outside the Shatterdome is unseasonably cold. Coruscant has a fairly temperate climate, but sometimes a cold front will roll in, sending its citizens digging through the backs of their wardrobes for a coat previously forgotten. Obi-Wan is bundled up in his leather bomber, the Horizon Light's insignia spread proudly across his back. He takes in the city skyline as a cigarette slowly burns itself out between his fingers, legs hanging over the edge of the landing pad and dangling over the dark, swirling seas below. There is nowhere out here at this time of night—too dark for any real work to be done. The landing pad has served as an escape whenever he can’t find peace within the Shatterdome’s walls. Just him, and the sea, and the lights of the city.  
  
It never ceases to amaze him how the population of Coruscant continues to thrive. They are a hardy people, stubborn to the last, clinging to the lives they've carved for themselves in their city by the shore. Living and working and carrying on despite the threat of monsters lurking in the deep. Cars whizz along lanes with shelters carved beneath; apartment complexes grow around foundations of bone. It is a city built upon skeletons of the monsters that would destroy them—the ultimate demonstration of human resiliency.  
  
Behind him, a door opens. Obi-Wan wasn't expecting anyone to find him out here, and fumbles with his cigarette as he tries to make himself seem less suspicious. Fortunately, when he turns to identify the newcomer, he doesn't think this particular person will be turning him in for possession of contraband.  
  
Skywalker pads out onto the landing pad, hands stuffed in the pockets of his own coat, lapel turned up against the chill. He joins Obi-Wan at the edge, settling down on the cool asphalt at his side, but says nothing. There is nothing to be said between them; they've hardly spoken since the day of their incident in the Kwoon. Instead he pulls a box of his own cigs from his pocket—cheaper than Obi-Wan'd preferred brand—and begins to dig around for something to light the one he slips between his lips. At his frustrated grunt, clearly having left his lighter indoors, Obi-Wan fishes his own out and flips it open. He offers the flame to Skywalker, who eyes him warily for a moment before leaning in to light the end of his cig as though this is some sort of devious trap that Obi-Wan has devised.  
  
It isn't. He's simply offering his copilot a light. The look on Skywalker's face when he came out informed Obi-Wan that he probably needed it. What's driven him out into the chill for a drag is probably the same thing that's chased Obi-Wan from the Shatterdome's controlled climate: the row Skywalker had with the medical staff in charge of Tano's treatment.  
  
While paramedics had been able to restart the girl’s heart after they fished the pair out of their submerged conn-pod (after Skywalker stabbed one of the medics in a blind panic), there has been very little development in her condition since then. Skywalker spends most of his free time in the ward at her side, reading to her or simply telling her about his day. Complaining about Obi-Wan. He would think it cute that he keeps her in the loop if Skywalker didn’t say some horrible things about him during those venting sessions. Of course, there is no guarantee that Tano can even hear him. Skywalker is convinced she can, but Obi-Wan has noticed the pitying looks the medics flash him when they pass by. They believe he’s talking to a dead woman.

It’s why they’d summoned the pair to the medical bay earlier. The suggestion that it was, perhaps, time to let the girl go had not been well received. Obi-Wan can't particularly blame Skywalker for his upset; if it were Qui laying there on that bed, he wouldn't be able to flip that switch either. He would never willingly say goodbye. Still, the chances of her recovery grow slimmer with every passing day. Obi-Wan suspects that Skywalker knows this, but he stubbornly holds out hope that the impossible may become real—that he may be granted this one small miracle.  
  
For some reason the medical staff seemed to think him capable of talking sense into the ranger. As if! The only thing he seems capable of doing is riling Skywalker up, even when he has no intention of doing it.  
  
The silence between them as they stare out at the ocean is broken by the wailing of a siren—flashing warning lights lighting up the dark of night. Both men are on their feet in an instant, cigarettes tossed to the churning seas below. There is not a being on earth who doesn't recognize the rhythmic pattern of the siren, providing a jarring counterbalance to the frantic beating of their hearts in their ears.  
  
Movement in the Breach.  
  
Obi-Wan doesn't feel himself falling into step with Skywalker as they jog through the Shatterdome, but he must have. He must have, because they stumble into LOCCENT at the same time, drawing to a halt behind a crowd of other rangers. They are among the last to arrive due to the distance from the landing pad to Shatterdome's central command. Mace is already launching into his speech.  
  
"At 21:00 hours, we detected movement in the Breach. Category Four—Codename Frogmouth.” The screens behind him light up with the Kaiju’s projected trajectory. “It seems to be headed here—to Coruscant. This will be a two Jaeger team drop. Ironclad Glory, I want you to frontline the harbor. Cerulean Hound, you'll be their backup. Stick close to the shore and engage at your discretion. Are we clear?"  
  
The chosen pilots salute, cleaner and sharper than anything Obi-Wan's ever done, then push their way through the crowd to go get suited up. The rest of the rangers mill around LOCCENT, finding somewhere to watch the feeds out of the way of the technicians' paths. Helicopters relay footage as they track Frogmouth’s progress, providing LOCCENT and the pilots with some basic information before they meet the beast head on.  
  
Falling into Category Four, the Kaiju is massive. Even partially submerged, Obi-Wan finds himself marveling at its size. Four powerful forearms break waves, propelling it through the tempestuous ocean as though it were no obstacle at all. The beast lacks a tail, but two stocky hind legs denote it to be at least partially bipedal. Its skin is the same reptilian texture of the Kaiju that came before it, outlined with green and blue bioluminescent veins. What makes Frogmouth unique, beyond its namesake wide mouth, are a series of plated ridges flowing from between its eyes down to the base of its spine. It’s armor, rendering the top half of the Kaiju nearly impervious to attack. If the boys are going to have any chance of taking it down, they're going to have to get at its exposed underbelly. Still, if there is any Jaeger team who can handle it, it's the crews of Ironclad Glory and Cerulean Hound.  
  
Rex and Cody Fett, Glory’s pilots, are two of the best rangers to ever go through the Jaeger Academy. Twins, born into the Fett military dynasty by way of their father, Jango. They are clever, loyal, and good in a fight. Obi-Wan has spoken to Cody some, his brother less so. Still, if their drop to kill ratio is to be believed, they're a highly successful pair. Their Jaeger, now appearing on the feeds as she’s air-dropped into the harbor by a squadron of helicopters, is a heavy-set, sturdy build made for both giving and taking a beating. She's primarily white, with blue and gold accents painted here and there. Her weapons systems are short-range plasma blasters, though she is equipped with retractable sting blades should they become engaged in close combat and their blasters are disabled.  
  
Glory hits the water with a great splash, turning to watch as her backup is also dropped down into the waves. The Cerulean Hound is a smaller Jaeger, built more for support and ranged attacks than direct confrontation. Blue with white accents, like an inverse of Glory, and armed with several different projectile weapons. Obi-Wan doesn't know her pilot's legal names, instead accustomed to the monikers given to the pair at the Academy: Jesse and Dogma. Another set of Fett brothers, younger than the Glory's pilots. Jesse is known for his wild, often unorthodox strategy while Dogma has a tendency to play things by the book. Still, they've managed to survive this long despite the differences in their personality.  
  
That has to count for something.  
  
At Obi-Wan's side, Skywalker is tense, staring up at the feeds with narrowed eyes. This is the first time either of them have been allowed to witness a fight since the fall of their own Jaegers, and Obi-Wan can't help but mirror the man's anxiety. A small part of him whispers that he should be out there with them—has whispered it since the very first Kaiju made landfall so many years ago—but it's easy to silence that voice now. All he has to do is remember what happened the last time he faced down one of these beasts. The disaster it brought upon him.  
  
On the feeds, Frogmouth has finally made its way into the harbor. It pushes out of the water and onto its hind legs, roaring in challenge at the Ironclad Glory. If its mouth was impressive when closed, it's even more so when open. Stretching across its face and opening to an impressive width, its drooping lips draw back to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. Serrated, mostly likely, to help it tear through a Jaeger's iron hull.  
  
Glory answers its call with a blaring of her sirens. Most Jaegers are equipped with them, though Obi-Wan has never used the Horizon's. Some rangers believe the noise frightens the Kaiju; Obi-Wan believes that any creature that large is unlikely to be frightened by anything less than god itself. He hasn't seen any footage of Skywalker's Paragon Brawler in combat, but suspects him to be among the crowd fond of the loud horns.  
  
LOCCENT watches with anticipation as Frogmouth charges Glory, the Jaeger's weapons systems activating just a second too slow to prevent it from being rammed by the Kaiju's plated skull. Obi-Wan flinches, watching the Glory thrown backwards, and doesn't notice the concerned look Skywalker throws his way. Frogmouth gives chase, leaping at the prone Jaeger and battering at her hull with its fists. Glory activates her sting blades, the daggers sliding from their sheath along the Jaeger's forearm before locking into place against its wrist.  
  
Obi-Wan feels his teeth grit as the blades slice through the Kaiju's soft underbelly, spilling its bioluminescent blood into the harbor. There is a reason most Jaegers only use bladed weapons as a last resort—a reason the Horizon's sword is heated with the same plasma generators that generate the Glory's projectiles. A Kaiju is a carefully crafted biochemical weapon, its blood laced with so much ammonia that erodes everything that it touches. When a Kaiju falls, it can destroy entire ecosystems if not properly dealt with. Plasma weapons cauterize on contact, preventing the spread of its toxic blood; regular weapons leave open wounds that leave a trail of destruction wherever the Kaiju goes.  
  
Frogmouth continued to batter at Glory, snapping at the Jaeger's arms with teeth as Rex and Cody try to drive the beast off them. The Hound launches a series of projectiles from its chest canons. The worst they do is singe the Kaiju's heavily plated hide, but it's enough to distract Frogmouth from its assault on Glory. As desired, the Kaiju turns the bulk of its attention to the smaller Jaeger, approaching more slowly than it had with the Glory. It appears to be sizing the Hound up, its head cocking one way and the other as it prowls closer. The injuries it has sustained are beginning to take a toll, giving the Kaiju a definite limp as it moves, but Frogmouth is still far larger than the Hound.  
  
The Glory meanwhile works at pushing herself to her feet, trying and failing to activate her plasma blasters. She’s taken some serious damage to her hull and limbs, visibly smoking and sparking even on the screen. LOCCENT technicians scramble to figure out what's gone wrong, shouting out readings from sensors and surveys as the Kaiju draws steadily closer to the Hound. Jesse and Dogma are a good team, but their Jaeger isn't built for this—isn’t built for a direct assault by a Category Four Kaiju.  
  
Obi-Wan watches, horrified, as the Kaiju seems to make up its mind. With one final glance at the struggling Glory, Frogmouth charges full-tilt at the smaller Jaeger. He doesn't want to watch, but can't seem to tear his eyes away from the screen as the Hound launches another series of projectiles—a desperate attempt to slow the monster's approach. Though the Kaiju does falter, it doesn't stop. It doesn't stop until it tackles the Hound, toppling the Jaeger backwards and tearing at the hull with teeth and claws. The Hound's pilots launch attack after attack, wounds delivered by the Glory targeted and torn open by the Jaeger's weapons. Still, it won't be enough. Sirens are blaring through the room, Windu is yelling for another team to get suited up, and Obi-Wan suddenly can't watch this a moment more.  
  
 He pushes his way through the gathered crowd and flees to their quarters with the solemn knowledge that a Kaiju will fall, but it will not fall alone

By the time Skywalker storms back into their room, Obi-Wan has managed to down most of the bottle of liquor that he'd stashed away for a rainy day and is curled, shaking, on the floor of their bathroom. He hears Skywalker’s entry, hears him crashing around, but can't seem to summon the will to get up and discover just what kind of mess the younger ranger is making. He has a tendency to be destructive in his rage.  
  
He doesn't remember that he didn't locked the bathroom door until Skywalker throws it open, sweeping into the room. The sneer on his lips tells him exactly what he thinks of Obi-Wan's condition, and the older man quickly finds himself grabbed by the front of his shirt and hauled to his feet. Skywalker slams him into the wall, taking Obi-Wan's weight when the older man can't keep his balance on his own. The bottle falls from Obi-Wan's grip, shattering on the floor.  
  
"We should have been out there!" Skywalker snarls. "We would have been out there if you had your shit together!"  
  
"What happened to not wanting another copilot?" Obi-Wan slurs, closing his eyes against the way the world is spinning. “I thought you didn’t want to pilot with anyone but Tano?”  
  
"I don't want another copilot! And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't pick you!" Skywalker shakes him, frustration written across his face. "But like it or not, I need you, old man. They all need you, so get your head out of your ass. Or are you so heartless that you're prepared to watch your fellow rangers die? Because I'm not!  
  
"If I die before the end of this war, I'm going to do it in a Jaeger, fighting Kaiju, making a difference. What about you?"  
  
Obi-Wan cracks his eyes open, and finds himself struck by Skywalker's open expression: desperate, beseeching, terrified. He doesn't flinch when Obi-Wan reaches a hand up, brushing uncoordinated fingers over the scarring across then younger man's cheek. Sitting locked in his quarters, isolated from everything but his own sorrow, is different from watching his fellow rangers going into battle.  
  
Watching the Hound's fall has made it real. He isn't the only one who's lost in this war; he isn't the only one who's scared. Skywalker is just as terrified as he is, but instead of falling into a bottle, he got angry. Skywalker doesn't know what to do but fight, and Obi-Wan is holding him back from that. He's like a wounded predator in a too-small cage: powerful and angry and ready to draw blood. But maybe—maybe—Obi-Wan can get angry, too. Even if he can't, maybe Skywalker is angry enough for the both of them.  
  
"Ok," Obi-Wan breathes. "Ok."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the boys take their first steps forward.
> 
> I forgot to link on the last chapter, but our friend JerseyTigerMoth on Tumblr did some awesome art for this fic!  
> [Horizon Light Jaeger Logo](http://jerseytigermoth.tumblr.com/post/159051904432/quick-and-dirty-horizon-light-jaeger-logo)  
> and  
> [Pilot Anakin Skywalker](http://jerseytigermoth.tumblr.com/post/159119335527/finally-had-some-time-to-make-this-i-fell-in-love)


	7. Chapter 7

Their second test drift goes about as well as the first. Falling into alignment is easy this time, as are the tests that LOCCENT has them run through once they’re synced. They’re well on their way to getting back out in the field, if the unmitigated delight in Muni’s voice as he walks them through their tasks is any indication. Obi-Wan knows they’ve made progress, even in the short few days since their agreement to really give copiloting a chance, and that high command is eager to get as many hands on deck as possible with the Hound down and the Glory out of commission until her pilots get out of medical. No, the problem comes afterward, when the harnesses are undone and the circuitry suits are peeled off. When they’re walking back to their quarters side by side, the echoes of each other’s thoughts and emotions still drifting through their minds. When they realize the magnetic pull that has them leaning heavily into the other isn’t just a product of their burgeoning relationship.

They’re ghosting.

It’s almost unheard of in such a fresh piloting pair. Most rangers, if they ghost at all, will only do so after hours upon hours spent in the cockpit; Obi-Wan had been piloting with Qui for months before they had first experienced a ghost drift. The fact that he’s doing so with Skywalker after only two drifts is unnerving, and he can feel the other man’s tension through their lingering connection. Obi-Wan can only assume it to be a product of their initial connection—of that too-long drift that began their partnership—in combination with their unique history with broken pair bonds. Those severed connections have caused them to cling even tighter to this new bond. It’s nothing short of terrifying.

Obi-Wan supposes he shouldn’t be entirely surprised that they’ve fallen into another argument by the time they reach the privacy of their quarters. Sharp, panicked words laced with blame and confusion as they try to force distance between them. The emotions are like a feedback loop, escalating with each pass between them. They had agreed to this, but they hadn’t agreed to _this_. This intrusion. This intimacy that they share, but shouldn’t.

“If you don’t like me, maybe you should just find another copilot!” Skywalker snaps, replying to a dig Obi-Wan made about the state of his side of the room. About the disarray the younger man’s things are always in.

Obi-Wan snorts. “At least I wouldn’t be piloting with an insolent child!”

“At least _I_ would be piloting with somebody who gives a damn; at least _they_ wouldn’t just stand there and watch their copilot die!”

There is suddenly a stillness between them. Skywalker’s face falls from aggression to horror at the realization of the boundary he’s crossed, knows immediately the effects of his words as they swirl through Obi-Wan’s mind and back through their lingering connection. Obi-Wan isn’t there to see it, however. He flees into the bathroom—the only place he can go considering that his copilot stands between him and the main door. Locking the bathroom door behind him, he sinks to the floor with his back to it and tries to catch his faltering breath. His mind is a storm, wild and chaotic, and Skywalker’s words ring in his ears.

_At least they wouldn’t just stand there and watch their copilot die!_

The words are like a knife to his gut; a bitter reminder of his one greatest failure. Because he had just stood there, frozen in fear, as Maul charged. As the hull tore open. As Maul killed—

He’s shaking violently, unable to catch his breath, the world around him beginning to spin with the lack of oxygen. Rationally, he knows he’s having a panic attack. This is not the first the first he’s had since Qui-Gon’s death—not even the first he’s had since becoming Skywalker’s copilot. That knowledge doesn’t help in settling him at all, only makes it worse, if he’s being honest. They were trying to move past this.

A bitter sob rips from his throat, but it’s all but drowned out by pounding on the door. Skywalker, apparently unnerved by his sudden flight, banging against the metal and rattling at the handle. “Open the door,” Skywalker commands, and Obi-Wan ignores him. It doesn’t deter his copilot, as he might have hoped. Instead, it only causes Skywalker to bang harder against the barrier between them. “So help me god, Kenobi, I will take this door off its hinges if you don’t open it.”

As much as he’d like to tell himself that Skywalker is bluffing, he and Skywalker have spent a fair bit of their time trying to get to know one another better. He is exactly that stubborn when it comes to getting what he wants, and has the mechanical know-how to accomplish it. There is no other option but to force himself to unsteady feet, and flick the lock on the door open.

Obi-Wan stumbles backwards as the door swings open, a flushed Skywalker barging through, in attempt to put some distance between them. When his back hits the shower door, when he can go no further, he sinks to the floor once again and curls in on himself, bracing for whatever comes next. He's expecting violence—expecting Skywalker to last out at him as he has in every major argument since their meeting—and can't help the startled gasp that leaves him when it doesn't come. There's no blood, no pain; just Anakin sinking to his knees before Obi-Wan and bundling the older man to his chest. He buries his nose in Obi-Wan's hair, and he can feel Skywalker shaking with Obi-Wan’s own wild panic. The man’s remorse is a sour thing on his tongue.

"I'm so sorry," Skywalker murmurs fervently into his temple. "I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—

"Stars, I'm so sorry. Please, please don't leave me."

Obi-Wan is unsure how to respond to this uncharacteristic, desperate cling. He can feel the echo of is in his own mind; a need for touch that has him twisting his fingers into Skywalker's dirty undershirt and leaning into the younger man's embrace.

It's been so long since Obi-Wan had allowed himself the simplicity of human contact. Not since before Qui-Gon's death, if he’s being completely honest. There were light touches, consoling brushes of fingers across his shoulders and down his arms, but never this full-body press that he and Skywalker are sharing. He had almost forgotten what it was like to bask in another's closeness—to feel their heat beating out of time with your own, to smell their scent and be enveloped in everything they are.

Skywalker smells like sweat and oil. Like slightly singed hair from the circuitry suit and the meal they'd had for lunch. His lips are chapped when they brush along Obi-Wan's temple, murmuring more soft apologies in contrast to the strong grip that he keeps on Obi-Wan's clothes. As though he fears the older man will disappear if he lets go for only a moment.

This is unlikely to happen, consider Obi-Wan doesn't intend to go anywhere now that Skywalker has hold of him. He's warm and content for the first time in so long, the brush of Skywalker's hands against his touch-starved skin enough to drive away the unpleasant thoughts of their argument. They just cling to each other; a desperate grasp for stability. They have both lost so much. They have lied to themselves, claiming they needed nothing else. But they need this—another person who can understand—however terrifying that connection may be.

Eventually, it is Anakin that drags them to their feet. They lean heavily on one another as the younger pilot hauls them to Obi-Wan's bed. It is a testament to his hazy state of mind that he does not protest when Anakin wrestles him onto the mattress, nor when he climbs in after. Anakin drags the blankets over them, curling himself around Obi-Wan’s back and throwing an arm around his waist in a gesture that is probably too intimate for their current relationship. Obi-Wan is too exhausted to care, their argument and his subsequent panic attack having taken more out of him than he expected.

“We’re going to be ok,” Skywalker murmurs into the nape of his neck, sounding as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Obi-Wan. “We’re going to do this, and we’re going to be ok.”

* * *

 

The next morning finds them with the boxes of Qui-Gon’s things pulled from the storage space below his bunk. Obi-Wan’s hands shake at his side in contrast to the bracing grip Anakin keeps on his shoulder. They’re just boxes; they shouldn’t be as terrifying as they are. Still he finds himself hesitating, staring blankly at these vessels of his life before this. Before Anakin. He’s scared that if he tries to dig through them, the memories will consume him; he’s scared that if he doesn’t, they’ll consume him anyway.

Anakin squeezes his shoulder, grounding. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. “You don’t have to. We can wait.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No, I have to do this. I will never be able to move forward if I am still clinging to the past.”

“Ok,” Anakin says. “Well, I’m here if you need me.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs as the man’s hand slips away. Anakin clambers back onto his bunk, flipping open a file on the Horizon’s mechanical schematics to offer him some semblance of privacy. There’s no real privacy in as small of a space as their quarters, but Obi-Wan appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

The first box to be opened is filled to the brim with a variety of knickknacks. Small stones and bits of dried plants Qui-Gon had collected from around the various shatterdomes they’d been stationed at over the years, miscellaneous figurines that hadn’t belonged anywhere else, a few wayward photographs that had escaped the bundle Obi-Wan knows is tucked away in another box. He tries not to look at them as he sets them aside, this process difficult enough without dragging out memories that he’d rather leave be for now. Most of the contents of this box can simply be thrown out, if he’s being completely honest. It’s a terrible thought, but Obi-Wan never shared his partner’s propensity to collect bits and bobs as he went about his day. In fact, it had driven him up the wall on most occasions. He feels terribly guilty about it now, and can’t help but slip a smooth river stone into his pocket for safekeeping.

The second box is filled with paperwork. Their contracts with the PPDC, their medical records, information on their next of kin. There are also stacks of mission reports that should have been filled out after their drops. Obi-Wan’s had been filed; Qui-Gon’s had not. Windu used to complain incessantly about the man’s inability to file anything, which left Obi-Wan to wrestle the man into doing _something_ in order to get the Marshall off their back. There is also a stack of photographs bound by a rubber band resting at the bottom of the box. These are joined by the photos from the previous box, then are shoved into a drawer beneath his cot with no further inspection. Anakin has photographs of himself and Ahsoka taped up to the wall around his cot, but Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet.

In the third box are Qui-Gon’s clothes. It was in this box that he'd stashed the bottle of booze Quinlan had left behind—that Anakin had terrified him into breaking. Now there's only a stack of tee shirts, all of them declaring some horrible, botanical pun in colorful lettering; pairs of pants that ate worn and heavily patched in places; a rumpled sweater that Obi-Wan had given Qui-Gon for the holidays in a soft blue. He holds the sweater to his face and inhales, but the scent of Qui-Gon's skin and his cologne have long since faded from the fabric. Instead there is only the musty smell to be expected from clothes that have been stuffed in a box for weeks. Expecting it doesn't stop it from being disappointing.

He has to decide what needs to be done with these things; it is the reason he's going through these boxes. The pants are long past their prime, held together by Qui-Gon's patch-job and much too big for Obi-Wan, anyhow. The tee shirts will have to go as well, though he does set aside a few of the less offensive of their number to sleep in. The sweater is... Well, it is something of a dilemma. It doesn't feel right to keep it, but throwing it away feels like an even worse option.

Without his permission, his eyes drift over to where Anakin lays on his cot, apparently immersed in the technical readouts from the Horizon's latest tests. He could just be giving Obi-Wan privacy, but the reality is that he's likely actually quite engrossed. Anakin has an interest in machines. _I'd originally wanted to go into jaeger tech_ , he'd confessed to Obi-Wan over dinner two days ago, _but Ahsoka was desperate to pilot, and I could never deny her anything_.

Obi-Wan hovers awkwardly beside Anakin's cot as he waits for the other man not notice him. "What?" He asks, more curious than hostile despite the interruption to his reading.

"Here," Obi-Wan spits out, shoving the sweater into his chest and not daring to look the man in the face. "It matches your eyes."

From the corner of his eye, he sees the way Anakin's own face flushes as he gently holds the sweater up for inspection. He rubs the fabric between the fingers of his organic hand, curious. Obi-Wan's lips twitch into a real, genuine smile, watching Anakin shrug into the sweater with apparent delight.

"Thank you," the other man says, ducking his head shyly. "It—it fits well."

"It looks good on you," Obi-Wan replies, swallowing dryly. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and what they see leaves them scrambling to return to their previous activities. Neither is paying their tasks the full attention now, however.

"You idiot—" Obi-Wan thinks he hears Anakin mutter, but doesn't ask after the man's self-flagellation. He's too busy berating himself with exactly those same words.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite his best attempts at ignoring the stares of their fellow officers, Obi-Wan can feel the weight of a hundred eyes on him as he eats. This is the first time he and Anakin have shared a meal outside their quarters, and their partnership is still a point of interest for other members of the PPDC. They stare, curious, and Obi-Wan finds himself all but hiding in the younger man's shadow as he tries to focus on the bland pasta dish Anakin fetched for him instead of the attention.

Anakin. The name is still strange, on his tongue and in his mind. Still he forces himself to say it—Anakin—because his copilot had called him 'Obi-Wan' this morning when he suggested the foray to the mess instead of the 'Kenobi' he usually prefers. It is an offered hand, a peaceful gesture, and Obi-Wan finds himself hesitant to turn it away. He still recalls the fear hidden behind the front of rage that Anakin puts up; he doesn't want to have to see it again.

For his part, Anakin seems to mind neither the attention nor Obi-Wan's proximity. He eats his own meal as though there is nothing amiss, shoveling the contents of his own tray down his thrat with his usual gusto. As though his copilot is not using him as physical barrier between himself and the wandering eyes. In fact, he seems to have accepted his role of Obi-Wan impromptu shield, a hand settled firmly against the small of the older man's back and glowering at anyone who stares too long.

There is one set of eyes in particular that Obi-Wan wishes would look away. Their weight feels like knives flaying skin from muscle, weighing him and his state. Obi-Wan works furiously to avoid those eyes, but he finds the impossible to ignore for long.

Yan Dooku is a regal man, proud in posture and respected in title. The hindrances of age have seemingly failed to overcome him, greying his hair and his beard but leaving him fighting-fit despite his advanced years. He is the oldest ranger in active service, piloting well-past the time others have thrown in the towel. He is also the only man in the universe who hates Obi-Wan more than himself.

He sits across the cafeteria with his current copilot, Asajj Ventress, at his side while they eat their own meals. Ventress is a younger woman, around Obi-Wan’s age, her head shaved bald and an intricate pattern of tattoos marking the skin of her face and scalp. She doesn't seem like the kind of woman that regal, elegant Dooku would easily partner with, but they serve as one of the PPDC's best piloting pairs. There is a respect for each other’s skills that allows them to overcome whatever differences in personality they may have.

Leaning over, Ventress murmurs something Dooku's ear, her eyes tracking her partner's to where Obi-Wan & Anakin are sitting. Dooku turns his head to acknowledge her. Whatever he says in return makes the woman snicker, her genuine delight with her copilot's sense of humor brightening her face for the barest moment before her expression settles back into the scowl she seems to perpetually wear.

Fortunately, their stares are not on the newest piloting pair for much longer. A hush falls over the mess, and all eyes are drawn to the entryway, where two rangers stand. Cody and Rex Fett have not made a public appearance since their defeat on the battlefield and the deaths of their brothers. They hadn’t even been able to make it to the public memorial, where their brothers had been memorialized on a wall of rangers lost. Instead they’d been stuck in the medical bay, their injuries severe by the time Frogmouth had fallen and rescue teams were finally able to pull them from their downed jaeger.

While their time in the medical bay appears to have done them some good, Rex and Cody still ear the signs of battle—tired eyes, cuts that haven’t quite closed, a limp when Rex walks—but they keep their heads held high as they make their way through the quiet room and over to the counter. There is no applause, no congratulations on their survival, but the staff in line to collect their meals step out of the way and allow the pair to move to the front. It is a gesture of respect, allowing them to retrieve their dinner and get off their feet quickly.

Once they’ve obtained their trays, the twins glance around the room for a place to sit. There are plenty of seats, but their eyes settle on the table Obi-Wan and Anakin are currently the only ones occupying. They share a quick glance between themselves before making their way over. Obi-Wan is both surprised and not by their choice. While he and Cody have shared a pleasant rapport in the past—Anakin claiming the same between himself and Rex—they aren’t exactly the most popular of piloting pairs. Perhaps that’s why they set their trays down across the table, settling into their chairs and flashing the pair thin smiles; perhaps they just need the space.

“Surprised to see you two out and about,” Rex says around a mouthful of potatoes. “Last I’d heard, you were still on the rocks with each other.”

Anakin shrugs, a lackadaisical thing, and tears the roll that came with his meal in half. He drops it on Obi-Wan’s tray, clearly expecting him to eat it, and Kenobi can’t help but wonder if there will be consequences if he doesn’t. “Marshal’s putting us back on active duty next week, so long as we pass our final drift test. Had to get out of the room eventually.”

“Congratulations!” Cody says, a grin briefly brightening his face at the news. It falls quickly, morphing into something embarrassed. “I’ll admit there that for a while there…”

“For a while, I didn’t think I’d ever get back in a jaeger,” Obi-Wan confesses. “I’m not going to get offended, Cody, if you doubted me.”

The man offer him a sheepish smile. “Still, glad to hear you’re finally getting back in the harness.”

“How have you two been holding up?” Anakin asks.

The mood around them abruptly plummets, both twins dropping their eyes to the tabletop and picking at their food. The loss of their brothers is still a sensitive subject, and Obi-Wan could clock his partner for bringing it up so tactlessly.

“It’s… been difficult,” Rex says, and they decide by mutual unspoken agreement to leave the topic at that. Everyone has lost family to this war, but that doesn’t make it any easier. While Rex and Cody seem to be coping better than Anakin and Obi-Wan had, there is undoubtedly still a private struggle happening in each and every moment.

“Don’t look now,” Cody murmurs after a stretch of silence, “but I think there’s trouble brewing.”

He casts his eyes over to the table where Dooku is sitting, Obi-Wan stiffens when Dooku pushes himself to his feet, strolling leisurely across the mess toward where the group is seated.  His interactions with Yan Dooku since Qui-Gon's death have been minimal, but entirely unpleasant.. The abject terror he feels when Dooku approaches has him pressed physically into Anakin's side. The younger ranger, surprised by this blatant display of unease, follows his gaze to the approaching figure. There isn't any sort of comprehension there, Dooku's feud with him isn't openly advertised thanks to PPDC regulations on interpersonal behavior, but he must understand enough.

Anakin's hand slides from Obi-Wan's back to his waist, curling around his waist. This new point of contact allows him to pull Obi-Wan closer, until the older man is pressed entirely into his side. The possessive gesture is not missed by anyone, least of all Dooku. The man's sharp eyes flick from Obi-Wan to Anakin as he approaches, taking in the younger man. Recognition flashes in his eyes, and Obi-Wan realizes that Anakin is wearing the sweater Obi-Wan gave him. The one that was Qui-Gon’s.

“Ah, Ranger Kenobi,” Dooku drawls when he reaches them, “what a surprise to see you out among the living once again. You’re looking better, I see.”

“Dooku,” Obi-Wan murmurs in acknowledgement, dropping his eyes to the table.

“And this must be your new copilot. How… _nice_ to see you moving on from Qui-Gon, at last.” He turns his attention to Anakin. “Yan Dooku,” he says, extending a hand.

Anakin clasps it, but his eyes are narrowed in suspicion. “Anakin Skywalker.”

Dooku hums, a disdainful noise, and lets Anakin’s hand go. “A lovely sweater you have there, Ranger Skywalker.” To Obi-Wan, a sneered, “Do take better care of this one, Kenobi. I would hate to see anything happen to him.”

With that, Dooku leaves as abruptly as he arrives, Ventress catching up with him at the door. Anakin scowls at them the whole way out.

“What a slimebag,” the younger ranger huffs as they go, stabbing his fork distractedly into his meal. “What’s his problem?”

“He was close to Obi-Wan’s former partner, Jinn,” Cody murmurs. “Blames Obi-Wan for what happened, and has an axe to grind with him. He can’t outright do anything to him, since the brass are keeping such a close eye on Kenobi, but that doesn’t stop him from being an ass.”

Cody’s explanation starts Anakin off on a rant, but Obi-Wan has stopped listening. What little appetite he had has vanished as Dooku’s words ring in his ears. Despite what everyone else says, the man has a point. Qui-Gon’s death was his fault; he is a danger to any copilot who gets into a jaeger with him.

What would happen to Anakin, if he froze in combat again? The kaiju are only getting stronger—getting larger. It’s more dangerous than ever to be out in the field, and with their final drift test looming on the horizon, Obi-Wan can’t help but wonder if he’s making the right decision. Should he really be doing this? Hadn’t he promised himself that he would never put another ranger at risk like that again?

He places a hand on Anakin’s arm, abruptly silencing him mid-sentence. “Anakin, can we please get out of here?”

The younger man glances over at him, concern bright in his good eye. “Of course,” he says quietly, and immediately busies himself with collecting their trays to throw away. They say their goodbyes to Cody and Rex, then Anakin follows as Obi-Wan flees out the door.

It’s not too late to put a stop to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Was feeling a little burnt out on my usual works, so been burning through some tumblr prompts this week.


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